Someone to scream at
by rapono
Summary: For most people, buying a house built on the property of an infamous serial killer is out of the question. But you aren't most people. And you're low on options. And unlike most people, you yell at unseen serial killers when there's a creak in your lonely home. There's something comforting to you about blaming nobody. At least, you hoped it was nobody.


This story is dedicated to the ao3 user, Alexis_Madeline.

If you love this story and want to read more, I'm currently writing and posting the sequel to this on ao3. It's _In the Boogeyman's House_ by rapono.

* * *

By all means, you really shouldn't be here. Sure, the home now looked nothing like it once did, but you knew who the foundation still belonged to.

And yet, here you were, the keys to the kingdom of death in your hand. Stuck with either going into debt paying rent or living in a house nobody wanted, you went against your gut instinct and chose the latter.

As you hauled your boxes into the somewhat vacant household, you tried to ignore the suffocating sense of foreboding. You were gonna be fine, there was no way Michael was still around, killing anyone who trespassed into his former home.

You made sure to lock every door.

It was quite nice, the semblance to the original building next to none, still with some basic furnishings inside. They hadn't removed much from the last owner, no one daring to stay inside for long. The realtors weren't even sure if he'd been killed, as far as anyone knew, he'd simply disappeared.

Still, it'd been enough to make it so cheap that even your poor ass could afford it.

All the basics were all there, things like an oven and toaster, as well as some bonuses, like a tv and some silverware. Once all your boxes were inside, you took to wandering the rooms before unpacking, trying to familiarize yourself with the place.

A part of you couldn't believe it. All this, this entire place was yours, all thanks to an ever increasing body count. Well, it probably meant it was technically owned by you and Michael, if he was still around. He seemed pretty possessive of the property.

"Thanks for making this place affordable Michael."

You said it to no one, or maybe you hoped, only him. If he was lurking around already, which you didn't doubt. Still, calling out to someone made you feel a little less lonely in this huge home.

And well, just maybe, if a certain killer had heard you, he'd feel less inclined to add you to his extensive kill count.

So with that final wish, you finally started unpacking.

* * *

It had been about a week since you'd started living in the "new Myers house", as you called it. So far, you were still alive, with no sign of the original owner.

The sense of paranoia however, refused to subside. Not that you were really afraid at this point, but couldn't shake the feeling he really was lurking around.

So when you would hear a creak or groan from your lonely home, it was oddly comforting blaming the unseen shape for it.

Like that thump from upstairs just now.

"Michael, you better not have broken something!"

You paid it no more mind, focused your episode of Stranger Things. Too focused to hear the faint footsteps following the thump.

You found yourself blaming him for misplaced items too, despite the certainty you had simply misplaced it. It wasn't uncommon, you'd done it several times.

Today's missing item was noticed while making a sandwich.

"Where the fuck is the bread knife?"

Said blade was missing from its usual spot, as you quickly noticed. Leaving the uncut bun on the counter, you started your search for it around the kitchen. You swore you put it back where it belonged, but it seemed you'd decided to give it a new home recently.

Searching high and low, frustration began to build. You knew you had only your own dumbass to blame, but right now, you really felt like pinning on the resident knife lover.

"Michael where the fuck did you put the bread knife!?"

By luck you did find it, as the handle was poking out from under the fridge, and you'd stepped on right it with your bare feet. Kinda like a Lego, but definitely not as bad.

"Ow shit, what the fuck?"

Relieved you hadn't stepped on the bladed end and cut yourself, you pulled it out from underneath. It wasn't clean, at least, not anymore, the auburn gunk on it probably something it picked up under the fridge. You should probably clean under it.

Although, when did you drop it?

Brushing that thought aside, you gave it a good scrub before putting it to use. With the bun now split in two, you messily assembled the sandwich, before dropping the finished product on a plastic plate.

Honestly it was pretty sucky. Presentation 0/10. Gordon Ramsay would disapprove. Not that you really cared that much, it was just for you. No one was around to judge you but yourself. And you were kinda disappointed.

Would've been worse without using the bread knife though.

No complaints on taste however, as you went back to Netflix, shoveling your creation into your mouth. Maybe you should finally get around to watching that one show your friend recommended.

As you hungrily devoured your poorly designed sandwich, you were quickly reminded why you shouldn't eat fast. The sudden jolt of a hiccup seized your lungs, and you found yourself scrambling over to the fridge for a cold glass of relief.

You had a case of Dr Pepper inside, along with some fruit juice and milk. Feeling more for some of the good doctor, you grabbed one of the cans, double taking just before you shut the fridge door.

Huh, you swore you had more. Must've not been paying attention.

Another hiccup broke your train of thought. With a satisfying click followed by the hiss of carbonation, you opened and desperately downed the sweet beverage, in hopes of quelling your awful hiccups.

Thankfully, the doctor gave you the cure, and with a sigh of relief, your hiccups were cured.

You made a note to buy more Dr Pepper.

* * *

Honestly, you really should've expected the vandalism. Despite the fact the old Myers house was long gone, the legend remained, and thus teens still dared their friends to mark the place to mock Michael.

Your name might've not been Michael Myers, but that didn't make you any less pissed.

You'd just finished washing your dishes, because you decided to be a responsible adult today and also you were running out of clean plates. You almost didn't notice it, the sound of something hitting your wall, but you did.

Assuming that it wasn't Michael spraying the side of his house with hose for no reason, you decided to see who the fuck was touching your house.

A young teen was currently spray-painting the side of your home, nervous and oblivious to your presence.

"Hey!"

The kid jumped, giving you some mild satisfaction, and stopped his spraypainting. The turned to look at who had called him, half his face covered by a handkerchief. Damn, these kids were getting smart.

"Michael's gonna get you for that."

That seemed like more than enough to get him to high tail it out of there, but not before he called back a more haunting reply.

"He's gonna get you first."

Still, he left, and you laughed nervously at his reply. Well, the kid wasn't wrong, probably. You tried your best to shake the sudden feeling you were being watched.

At least the kid's art was kinda decent, albeit unfinished. He hasn't just drawn a dick.

You didn't feel like trying to clean it today though, at least, not before making yourself something to eat. After all, you didn't clean all those dishes just because you liked cleaning (which you didn't).

So with a mild spine chill still residing, you headed back inside. Hopefully, he'd tell his friends to leave your house the fuck alone.

It was only a few days later you saw a flier for a missing teen. You stared at it, transfixed in horror, the sinking feeling of guilt and dread making a pit in your stomach.

That wasn't the same teen, was it? Silently, you prayed that your assumption was wrong.

* * *

"Sorry I'm late."

You stumbled into your workplace, slightly disheveled and out of breath. You usually made it on time (and by on time you meant barely in the nick of time), so you hoped that ten minutes just this one time would be fine.

Your boss sighed, a tinge of relief in that tone. "That's okay, just glad you showed up. Please don't be late again."

That, seemed slightly off. You wouldn't usually press about it, but you were feeling a bit anxious, doubt grading at your mind. "You don't trust me to show up?"

He was clearly taken aback by your accusation, scoffing slightly. "No no, it's just, we both know where you live, and what that implies. So I hope you understand that if you miss and shift and don't call in, I'll assume you're dead."

"Ah. Yeah, that's a fair assumption."

"Glad you understand. Now, let's not dillydally any longer. You've got work to do."

"Yes sir."

Well, at least you knew now to always call in no matter what. Well, unless you were dead, of course. The thought of heading home was suddenly a lot less appealing. Not that you didn't know the risk already, but the fresh reminder didn't help to calm your recently raising anxiety.

You tried your best to not think about dying for the rest of your shift.

* * *

Great. Your bag of jellybeans had been knocked to the floor, spilled out and scattered across the room. You'd already accidentally crushed one underfoot, and one of your favorites too. At least it hadn't stuck to the carpet.

When had this happened though? You had no memory of even causing it in the first place.

Huh, must've bumped it off without noticing. Or maybe…

Well, to be honest, you didn't feel _that_ bad blaming him.

"Damn it Michael, you could at least clean up after yourself!"

Feeling satisfied having complained about the definitely long dead murder man, you didn't stick around to clean it. You were already pressed for time, the risk of being late for work ever increasing. So, you left the surprise mess alone, making a mental reminder to clean it when you got home.

When you got home later that day, tired and a little irritable, you just barely remembered about it. Wishing you had bothered to at least clean some of it earlier today, you groaned in the anticipation of more work, and headed over to clean it up.

It, it was already cleaned.

Not a single jellybean was on the floor, crushed or otherwise. In fact, the bag was back where it used to be, refilled with (probably dirty) floor beans. Everything was all perfectly back where it should be. A nervous laugh bubbled out of you, as with horror, you realized what this implied.

Either someone was living in the house with you, or you had really early altimzers. With the latter near impossible, you tried your to not let the ever increasing sense of paranoia get to you.

There was only one person it could possibly be, unless some stranger decided to break in and do some chores. You couldn't help but laugh nervously, that faint yet lingering sense you weren't alone now much stronger.

"Thanks Michael."

You hoped, you really fucking hoped, that if it was him, he would accept your thanks. And by accept it you mean you hoped he didn't kill you.

Well, he hadn't killed you yet, right? Or maybe he had finally dropped in for a visit. Or maybe someone was pranking you. Or maybe this was in a bad dream.

So walking away from the former disaster, you opened up YouTube on your phone, scrolling through your recommended videos for anything that would distract you from your peaking anxiety.

* * *

You opened your eyes to the feeling of hungry. Checking the clock, you groaned audibly, as it revealed the unwanted time of 4 in the fucking morning. Of course your body had to interrupt your sleep to make you eat at this unholy hour.

Knowing the hunger pains would keep you from falling asleep again, you reluctantly dragged yourself out of bed. Not wanting to blast your eyes with light, you decided to stumble your way down to the kitchen in near darkness.

Fighting back a yawn as you started your descent down the stairs, you noticed there was light coming from somewhere down the stairs. Huh, thought you turned off all the lights before bed. Must've forgotten.

So trudging down the steps, you did you best not to slip, your eyes tempting to close. But as you neared the bottom of the staircase, you stopped, eyes locking on the source of light, until the figure in front of it became clear.

Michael fucking Myers was raiding your fridge at three in the morning.

Biting back a gasp, you froze, unsure what to do. The big man himself, Mr serial killer extraordinaire, was pilfering your food.

You blinked as if doing so would make him disappear, as if he was simply a stressed induced hallucination. But no, he was still digging through your fridge, and very much real.

He seemed to have finally noticed your presence, perking up from his hunched over search in your fridge, a Dr Pepper in his hand.

Oh, that's where they'd disappeared off to.

He was still staring at you, as quiet and as terrifying as ever, tilting his head to the side. Sleep-deprived mind still struggling to fully process the situation, you vocalized the first thing that came to mind.

"Holy shit."


End file.
